Once
a month, I risk my life for reveurite. It is the most pliable metal of the
dreamscape, infinite in its uses but deadly to shape. Like an acid, it corrodes
leather, clothing, skin. The only mine is on an island impossible to reach,
unless you know the way. In a tower at its peak I wait for the moon’s apex,
when reveurite falls from the stardusted ether. My hammer and tongs rest on the
workspace, handles towards me where I can reach them. Moonlight comes in from a
narrow port at the top of the tower.
Three minutes to midnight, I begin my preparations.
With a silver dagger, I slice my palm open and scatter my blood across the
worktable as a baker does with flour. I pick up the hammer, weigh it in the
palm of my hand, and give an experimental swing. The furnace on my left is
swelteringly hot. Exactly three minutes later, the reveurite falls like a lead
weight sent by the gods. It lands through the port onto the workspace in a
viscous smear.
I
work rapidly, wrestling it into the shape I need, though it slips and slithers
under the tongs. This is a battle of willpower more than anything else. I
command the reveurite to shift form, to line the mould that I have prepared.
Grasping the tongs with both hands, I shove it into the furnace where it
screams. Before the night is over, I will shed more blood in an attempt to fix
its shape. It must be perfect.
An
hour later, I put down my tongs and hammer. My hands are shaking, either from
blood loss or fatigue, and I wipe them on my trousers. There are small craters
in the workspace that will need to be filled and the wood that supplies the
furnace must be restocked. But the work is done. A small box sits in front of
me, whalebone in appearance only. Three engraved dragons cross each other at
the centre of the lid, topaz eyes glinting in the darkness. Foxgloves dance
along the sides. It doesn’t have to look this way – it can be wood, or glass,
or even cardboard for all the difference it would make – but a craftsman always
takes pride in their work, and furthermore, she will appreciate the effort. My
orphan creation. With haste – because there is not much time left, not now – I
open the lid and place the letter within. This is the only way to guarantee its
arrival, no matter the circumstances, and it is imperative that it reaches the
shores of the living. To her.
If I could I would linger, but dawn is
grasping at the horizon, so I take the box from the middle of the workspace and
depart. For a few more minutes the island exists, hanging precariously on the
edge between one life and another, until the moon fades and the ocean swallows
it whole.
This story was made possible through the writing prompt at terribleminds.com.
